That thing everyone does but awesomer.

-Alex who knows 2013 will be big baller status.

Let's do it.

Let's go take some SmithFly stuff:

And go hang out here:

Maybe catch a fish or two. What do you say?

-Alex who is merrying some gawd damn christmas wishes at the moment and can't come to the phone.

mouthfullabow

Yo, dude... you got some stocker in your teeth.

-A

I'm too fat and the pond is too far away...

When you get too old and fat to enjoy the things you did all day every day when you were 14, Shoot it.

3 friends of mine and I decided to do some target practice.. Let me start sooner. Friday morning, I looked in my shed and found my old skateboard. Yeah I tried to ride it, tried. Ed, JJ, Larry, and I were going shooting later in the afternoon, in disgust from stepping on my skateboard and falling on my ass, it ended up in the target box.

From my 7mm. Magnum, 12 gauge shot gun, 30-06 rifle, and .380 Micro Eagle, we took care of this old friend, as well as a bunch of other shit. We could have done more damage, but we had plenty of other shit to shoot.

Kyle, Too fat to Sk8

Apparently the big ones name is Wilson.

-Alex who knows that Wilson knows when it's lunch time on the Juan.

More Koi from the northern ponds

Another quick trip into Phoenix, I decided to hit up some of the ponds. nailed me some nice Koi on my 4wt. These ponds are for filtering out the Canals up in Phoenix, it smelled like dead skunks and shit. I did not care I was going to fish them anyway. Found out the only thing these fish are focusing on is bright pink egg patterns. Once the egg hits the bottom you see a few head turns, then suddenly they all become super aggressive. It reminded me of a van full of fat old men entering a buffet, looking around in a confused manner. Once they all notice that there is only one item of food left, they all must fight for it. It was quite 

fun!

Mr. Jones and Me

Haven t thrown a fly in about 3 months, I thought my cast would suck horribly, I thought my presentation would be that of a Tasmanian Devil, I thought my luck would run out.

Met up with Jason Jones and he took me to a couple carp spots where he loves. The Koi, Tilapia, Cats, and Carp were not interested in anything. Until i ties on a Glow Bug just for the hell of it.

After so long, My casts were great, presentation spot on, and Luck was Amazing, That is my first Mirror carp.

What can I say...

...I like being warm.

-Alex who's gonna be looking damn sexy on the San Juan next week and will give thoughts on the Hell Razor performance upon returning.

A Deliberate Post

The Smythester

The Smythester (aka Matt Smythe) and photographer Grant Taylor  recently released the trailer for their film A Deliberate Life. A full length version will be debued at IF4.

From watching the trailer, I find that it has all the things that I have come to expect from the introspective side of fly fishing film: stunning landscapes, sun flares, neato time lapse imagery, slow motion RED EPIC deliciousness, more sun flares, pretty fish, dramatic music, etc.

The message is simple and pertinent: Like an a capella version of the Beastie Boys, Fight For Your Right, A Deliberate Life reminds you to not only to fight for your right to party, but for the pursuit of happiness and for that which is most important to you.

Yeah. Pretty solid way to be.


"A Deliberate Life" (Trailer) - Official Selection, IF4 2013 from IF4 on Vimeo.

-Alex who is living deliberately.

Ghost Story.

Billy Watkins stood in the warm buzzing grass and looked down the hill to the water. Small gnats and other flying particulates lit the air and danced in the rays where they fell between the canyon foliage, appearing and disappearing between the bronze afternoon shadows. Roddy, the family's five-year-old golden retriever leaned into Billy's leg and looked down toward the waters edge where the boy's attention was fixed. It was the tree. The one that split down near the base and hung over the river. The one that was just the right height, and the just right angle. He knew what he needed and he was pretty sure where it was. Had just seen it, in fact, when his dad had been putting away the boxes just yesterday. Billy turned and ran for the shed.

They had just moved from Idaho. The year was 1990. Their old house had sat on the bank of a large lake. On the edge of their property was a tall tree that hung over the water from a steep bank. A rope swing had been tied to the tree many years before, and Billy had watched in awe and wonder as his older brother Davey had, like the superhero that older brothers can only be, shimmied and scratched his way up that seemingly mile-high trunk and set about tying a new rope in its place.

"It's a cow hitch, Billy." David said as he rubbed the bark fragments from his forearms.

"Some people would just tie a loop, ya see? Then they would throw it over the branch, put the other end through the loop and pull it tight. But me? I am smart guy, Billy Boy. I tied a hitch, which don't rub as you swing back and forth.  See? smart." David tapped his forehead in an exaggerated manner.

Billy still remembered the knot.

The door on the shed was open and he entered the dark space. The boxes and crates lined the walls with a level of organization that can only accompany a cross country move; each box labeled and each green plastic crate stacked neatly one atop another. The floor was unnaturally free of dust. He poked his fingers through the holes in the crates as he looked at the dark shapes and colors held within. He moved one by one till he found the one he was looking for. The one with the big rope.

Billy grabbed the front of the milk crate and pulled. Nothing. The crate he needed was at the very bottom of a tall stack, and it looked like one of the stack had some of Davy's spare motorcycle parts in it, so Billy knew that meant it would be abnormally heavy.

Billy sighed and put his eye to the handle hole. The end of the big rope was close. He stuck his little hand into the hole and grabbed the rope. He was able to get its end worked out through the handle hole in the crate. He began puling the rope out but after about 15 feet something caught. The rope had gotten tangled somehow and a knot stuck on the other side. He pulled and yanked as hard as he could but he could not dislodge the rest of the rope. He threw it to the wooden floor in anger. Dammit! It's not fair being so little. Life sucks. If only he was strong like Davy  he could just lift all those crates off at once and move on with life. He looked at the pile of rope on the floor and had an idea.

He grabbed the end of the rope and walked to the door of the shed and looked out into the yard for Roddy.
"Rowdy" Roddy was a good dog, a strong dog.
"Rowdy" Roddy had never lost a game of tug-a-war in his life.

Billy called and the dog came running across the yard. Billy held the end of the rope out and waggled it back and forth. Roddy skidded to a stop and leap at the rope. Billy swung it away from his mouth and the big dog lunged again and again. You can't let him have it right away, Billy knew. You had to get him good and worked up first.

After just the right amount of taunt Billy dropped his hand and slapped the thick rope deep into the dogs jaws. The dog lowered his head and pulled against Billy, who was quickly overpowered and yanked out into the yard.

Billy held on as the dog pulled the rope taught to the crate. Thunk. Roddy stopped for a moment, as if confused by the perceived rapid gain in Billy's strength, then lowered himself even more and gave a great growling pull. There was scraping sound immediately followed by a magnificent crash that was amplified by the silence of the canyon and the thin steel sides of the shed.

Roddy yelped and released the rope, turning to run. Billy spun around and saw a plume of dust lazily wafting through the door. He knew he has to work fast. He ran into the shed. The five boxes from the top of the stack lay on their sides at crooked angles, their contents lay strewn about like ship wreckage on the bottom of the ocean. The one with the rope coming through its handle had been pulled out into the middle of the floor. Only one crate remained on top of this lowest box. Billy quickly shoved the remaining crate to the side and gathered the big rope in his arms, running out the shed door. The end that he had pulled through the handle made a dull buzzing noise as it was pulled back through the handle hole, the cauterized end clearing the space with a light snap sound.

He ran behind the shed. Just as he hit his knees to the dirt he heard the screen door on the back porch screech open.
"What was that?" His mother yelled out into the yard. "Billy? What was that noise?"
He stayed quiet.
He heard the screen door band shut.
"Billy?"

She was coming this way, toward the shed. Billy knelt in silence, trying to hear the swishing of the grass under his mothers feet. There were two light taps as her soft-soled shoes hit the wooden floor of the shed. She was inside now, probably looking at the mess and determining if Billy was smushed under the pile of rubble.

He looked down and saw with a start that the end of the rope was still leading around the corner of the shed. He hadn't pulled in the slack that he had used to taunt the dog. Damn. He peeked around the corner, the thick white braid ran down the side of the shed and disappeared around the corner toward the open door.  My God! When she comes out she will see it for sure, and it will lead her here right to me!

His mother was still in the shed, poking around in one of the crates, it sounded like. Billy closed his eyes and began to pull in the loose rope. Finally the tip appeared around the corner and he let out a trembling breath and reigned in the last few feet just as his mother stepped back out into the sunlight. She held her hand up to her eyes to shade the sun, "Billy?" She stood for a moment, looked back at the shed, then started back towards the house. Roddy came to meet her halfway and followed her back inside hoping for a stray piece of pre-dinner to hit the floor.

Billy heard the screen door shut and looked around the corner of the shed. Upon seeing that the coast was clear, he gathered the rope in his arms and ran to the path that led down to the big tree that reached out so perfectly over the cloudy slow-moving water.

---

Recently homeless ex-investment banker Russell Frederick Leonard had walked the 25 miles from the Sunshine Rescue Mission in Flagstaff to Sedona to confront his ex-wife about the money she took from him, money that he had rightfully stolen from his firm. Money that he needed to get back into the game. Money that would fix it all. He arrived at the property only to find a Long Reality sign in the driveway with a large SOLD sticker slapped across the face at a happy angle. Caroline was long gone.

He broke into the old house and found the three-quarter-full 1.75 liter bottle of vodka he had long ago hidden in the crawl space access port, which was a small panel in the ceiling of the hallway closet.

As he was peeing circles into the living room carpet and taking big swigs from the vodka bottle he was startled by a large crash sound outside. He choked on a swallow and coughed, then moved quickly into the guest bedroom to hide, sure that the sound was some authority figure busting into the house to take him away. An hour later, and 1.16 liters of vodka drunker, Russell stumbled out the backdoor and down the path to the creek. The rocks were slick and the thorn bushes pulled at his dirty suite and cut shallow slices through his arms and legs. He looked closely at his bloody hands.

He crawled to the water, angry and maddeningly depressed. He slipped on a wet stone and face planted. He screamed into the water and the sound bubbled up around his head. He rose unsteadily, the blood from the small cuts running into his eyes. Then he saw it.

The large rope was tied to the tree branch with a cow hitch and looked brand new. Unscathed by the elements. He looked around and saw no one. Heard nothing but the birds and the sky and the trees and the mountains and everything else he used to love and as he looked into the warm afternoon light he understood. Russell Frederick Leonard knew at that moment the rope had been tied there for him.

---

Samantha Watkins stood in the Kitchen cleaning the dishes from dinner. "Rowdy" Roddy sat patiently alert near the sink, watching closely as the leftover food was scraped from the plates into the garbage disposal.

She had asked Billy about the crates in the shed, and he was adamant that he had nothing to do with it. A little too adamant, if you asked her, but he stuck to his innocence and quickly cleared his plate and asked to be excused and she had let him go. She would get to the bottom of it when Walter came home.

She heard a thumping woosh as Billy crossed the kitchen tile and ran out the screen door with a bang. Roddy scampered up off the floor and out the door, following the boy.

She watched out the window as he and the dog ran for the path that led down to the river. Something was up, she was sure of it now. She wiped her hands on a towel and cleared a few more plates from the table, then bent to tie the top off on the black kitchen trash bag. She lifted the bag out of the canister and heard the screen door slap shut.

Billy stood in the doorway and looked pale. "What?" She said, concern on her face.
She put the trash bag down and went to her son. "What's wrong, Billy?"

He pointed out toward the creek.

"There is a man hanging from my swing."

---

Russell Frederick Leonard now haunts that stretch of Oak Creek. The rope swing is still tied to the tree and can be found there to this day. Those who see it can obviously tell it is haunted. Or maybe it's just me.

Oh yeah, Ben Smith from azwanderings.com and I recently fished Oak Creek, where I saw the haunted rope swing.

Haunted. Rope. Swing.

Terrifying.

Pics of fishy stuff:

Russell did this. Ben Smith Photo.

Ben Smith Photo.

Unwind, bro. Dammit, Ben, I said bro again.

-Alex who would totally name a dog after Rowdy Roddy Piper because it's awesome.

Frustration

I wake up at 4 am, grab the pack I loaded up the night before with my camo taped tri pods, high powered binoculars, water, ammo, and my 7mm magnum. As I open the door to my truck I wonder why the old people feel the need to walk their rodent like dogs in front of my house and stare while i am covered head to toe in brush camo. Can they see me?

I drive 30 miles away from home onto a dirt road up the mountain and see truck after truck. Shit everyone is coming out for the last 2 days of the hunt. Finally i found a spot to park and see a hill that I want to glass off of. I grab my 70lbs. pack out of my truck and start my mile and a half hike.

"I am too fat for this shit" I told myself, but still pushed on.

I reach the peak that I wanted, out of breath and wanting to throw up. I set up the glass and wait for the sun to start peeking over the hill tops. As I scan the half dead bushes, and cactus the wind starts to blow mildly shaking my optics so I can not see much movement on the field.

As the wind dies I am staring at a patch of cactus being approached slowly by a small group of javalina.  Some movement from beyond the prickly pear patch catches my eye. I set my rifle on the other tripod and focus my scope in.

BANG! Someones shot startled my buck down an canyon and out of range.

"Where the fuck is he?" I said to myself.

Suddenly  more shot fire, one after another, I hear yelling off in the distance as i am glassing to see if more people are around. Nothing.

I hike up to another hill top, this time leaving my pack behind. I glass down and see 4 people target shooting at what seems to be nothing. Fucking assholes.



I wonder if this round will be fired off this season.

-Kyle, who wants his first deer.

Boo!

Happy Halloween.

-Doy

Wallet Chain Party Time

“We used to party with this guy named Doy.”

Chris popped a nicotine lozenge and shifted the brown Four Runner, accelerating down the hill. The clackacraft tracked tightly behind, playing peak-a-boo in the side view mirror around the back of the truck.

Fly rods jiggled in the magnetic holders on the hood. Streamers hooked in guides fluttered violently in the headwind and I stuck my hands into the pockets of my jacket.

“Doy was a cab driver which was great because he would give us rides in exchange for us taking him to these parties that we would go to.”

We crossed a concrete bridge and I looked at the San Juan River reflecting the warm yellow morning light on the buttery hills.The concrete wooshed under the truck and the low bridge sides echoed the pushing air. The tires made a thunk as we transitioned back to blacktop as the view of the river passed.

“I didn’t know him that well at the time,” Chris continued, “I thought he was pretty quiet, you know? Didn’t say much.”

We turned from the pavement to dirt and passed houses with dogs and chain link fences on sloping hills bracketed by fiery yellow cottonwoods. The sun warmed with nonchalance over tall shadowy sandstone canyon walls.

“So one night Doy drives us to this party, and we are hanging out drinking. Then he disappears for a while, you know like he went to the bathroom or something, but then I hear this guy in the other room say ‘oh no, Doy’s doing it again’ and I look and see that Doy has his dick coming out his fly and has it tucked into his back pocket. And that shit ain’t even stretched, you know? It’s just hanging there like a wallet chain. You know those chains that bikers wear? Yeah, it’s just like that, Just like one of those wallet chains but, you know, his dick.”

Chris laughed and spun around in the dirt lot, pointed the trailer toward the water and shut off the truck.

“Makes sense that he was quiet,” I said. Chris opened his door and looked back over his shoulder.

“Don’t need to say much when you got that going on.”

He laughed again and stepped out into the chilly morning river air to get the boat rigged.

I smiled.

It was a good day.

-Alex who knows the back pocket is way too far away.

life like noodles

He had packed it like a cigarette smoked to the filter and the zipper made a hot noise as it closed like night around day.

SSSSSZZZZZZHHHHHHHHHHHNNAP!

The duffel hit the floor at his feet. A disturbed dust bunny made a break for the safety under the box spring but settled for a discarded leather slipper. He coughed like an afterthought and walked to the kitchen.

He stared at the other packed stuff on table and scratched at the stubble on his cheek. His fingernail found a little scab and he thought absentmindedly about the important things he was probably forgetting.

He picked the scab and examined it closely in the buzzing, greenish light.

He rarely forgot things but when he did he had a tendency to make it something spectacularly important.

He flicked the scab to the carpet and turned to the refrigerator. The door sucked open and the interior was illuminated in yellow long enough to show him again that there was still no sustenance contained within before he closed the door again.

Something tickled his cheek and wiped at it. There was a little blood smear on the back of his hand. He licked it and grunted in agreement and tasted plastic.

He stepped over a wet spot and moved to the sink and squeezed some dish soap into his palm as the hot water struggled through the old copper in the walls.

He tried to scrape what looked like an old noodle from the edge and only succeeded in bending his thumbnail back painfully. He put his hands under the water and flung them away from the lava-hot flow with a yelp.

He bit his knuckle and tasted soap as the space heater hummed on the counter drying his freshly washed hat.

Out the window a light breeze gently pushed the mosquitoes in wobbly circles in the shadows of the carport.

He looked upon the defiant noodlet with contempt.

The hours before a trip were always the longest hours of his life.

-Alex who has long hours, too.

Coulda Been a Contender

Walt Redman called that fucker in, and the son of a bitch just about jumped into the truck. He stood about twenty yards from us, grunting and snorting, bloodshot eyes, covered in piss.

He had just been talking to her from down in the valley. Then he heard some other asshole bugling up here with her and he came to see about that. She was here somewhere; that pretty little cow elk that he had heard talking all slutty.

He got to the top of the hill and stopped.

What the hell is this? He stared, still quivering with desire. Who are these bastards? Two big metal bastards and three two-legged bastards standing up here all alone in the early morning light.

He stomped the ground and turned slightly, grunting. Something ain’t right, he knew now. The wind shifted and he caught the scent and turned his big head bolted down the hill, pussy be damned this shit smelled dangerous and he got out of here.

That was Tuesday. Elk season stated Friday. That randy kid wasn’t going to be tricked a second time. No sir.

Friday morning we hit the call, waved, and said hello from 425 yards as he turned and walked away, knowingly. That was the end of that.

I will become a better elk hunter. Yes. I will.



-Alex who will never be okay with 2am as a "get up" time.

Daddy would you like some sausage? Daddy would you like some sausages?

I bought a new toy, I have some Elk, I have a smoker, And I made some sausage.

Old recipe I made a few years back for my own spicy pork sausage. I was wondering how well it would work for game meats. I quickly found out Elk is very dry when cooked with the spices I add for sausage, so how do you fix the problem? Lard, lots and lots of delicious lard! 

 The new toy for the Kitchen Aid

 The mix

 

The casings (pig intestines) 

 The process

 The rope

 Link it up

The smoker is ready

 Smoked and ready to eat

The French Toast, what the wife wants after seeing how sausage is made

Kyle- Can't wait to get  some more game.

man skillz

Zach "Daddy" Fralc got skill.

-Alex who understands when the skunk is on, men can resort to desperate measures.

hard work

Sometimes you get up early and work hard.
Sometimes you put pants on and boots on and sweat and get serious and move with conviction.
Sometimes you do important things; things that matter to others and need to be done.

And sometimes you float around the lake smoking fat cigars and getting nipple-tan while sticking hungry LMB on frogs.

-Alex who likes those times the best.

PS the pimp-my-net net has now had its cherry popped and smells of sweet stank.

If you haven't seen this yet.....

I remember a while ago, like 4 years ago, when I was thinner, when Alex was fat, and Aaron was just the same, I was living in Colorado. Alex and Aaron came to visit me for a few days of fishing the coffee colored waters of the South Platte river. It was a heavy rain 2 days before the arrival of Aaron and Alex, the clear low waters of the South Platte turned into a super creamed out coffee look, the flow tripled, the fish were not around too much. But with the help of beer, 16oz. steaks every night, double or triple burgers for lunch everyday, it was a feast and a fest for a fat guy who loves to fish. The days consisted of fishing, drinking, and fishing. The night consisted of drinking, bars and eating. It was fun. Very very fun.

 

These were some fun days.

Showin a Little Extra Love

 www.seaforthlanding.com

I have fished many off shore charters out of California.

The season is coming for those Sheeps Head, Ling Cod, Rock Fish, and Halibut.

If you are running for some fun around the San Diego Area, go for a spin with these guys!

The time has come to get some, I will be heading out to see them again and wreck those rock and kelp beds.

Awesome, only a little awesomer.

The first time I saw a Nomad composite landing net (at the Carp Slam last year) I knew I would own one. I was standing next to MG when I spied that olive-drab-carbon-badassness from across the tent and channeled my inner Wayne Campbell, mumbling "she will be mine. Oh, yes. She will be mine." It only took a year.

So this year over at Trouts, when MG was all "Can I put the Nomad back now, please" I was all like, " Not today, my good man. I'm feeling saucy...." You know.

So now that the awesomeness is all mine I had to make it just a little more awesomer by adding a loop so I can clip it to my pontoon boat or pack, making sure the kickass remains mine.

Carbon weave? Check.
Tactical-like Olive Rubberized Paint? Check.
Rubber bag for keeping the fishes happy and your shit untangled? Check.
Lightweight like a boss? Check.

And now: Paracord braded loop in matching olive and black? Double Check, bro.

Gonna play with some LMB next week. I think them fishes be totally like "damn son, this shit is nice in here. You da man!"

Yep.

-Alex who is still writing this signature style because k8 said she likes it. You still out there?

Beating the Inevitability

Mike's boots sloshed along the path with that unique, semi-erotic sound that results from the stretching and bending of wet fabric and rubber. He turned slightly and smiled in my direction. "Man," he said, "I was worried that we were going to get wet for a second there." A fat drop of water fell from the brim of his ball cap and joined its brethren below.

Clouds enveloped the foothills that bordered the creek and everything looked mystic, otherworldly, soft yet impenetrable; an inviting dreamscape of unknown intentions which cooed and soothed and beckoned these anglers toward moving water and a chance at beating the inevitability of what happens when atmospheric water vapor becomes heavy enough to fall under gravity.

In other words, Mike and I went fishing and it rained on us all fucking day.

Mike and I went fishing and didn't give a damn about no wetness.

Mike and I went fishing and punched stained water in the face.

Mike and I kicked ass.

-Alex who thanks Mike for the ride, good conversation, the quality time on cool water and the towel. I like a man who thinks ahead.